Beauty is a bitch. It teases you, haunts you, and consumes every inch of your soul. It’s a love song reminding you of a first kiss. It’s a painting that renders you speechless. It’s the subtle yellow, orange, and red hues of a sunset fading as night slowly approaches. But nothing beats the beauty of the unattainable; the obsessive desire of a man your body begs for but can never have.
Obsession is defined as a compulsive and often unreasonable idea or emotion. I am obsessed with him. It is he who continuously forces his way into my consciousness. I can’t stop thinking about him, longing for him, aching only for him. As I read an excerpt from a novel, he becomes the main character in the story. When I prepare myself for the day, I see his image in the mirror. My light brown hair transforms into his black tousled hair. The light green of my eyes turns gray-blue so often that I need to do a double take at the reflection staring back at me.
Like a chimera capturing my every thought, he haunts me every second of every minute and every minute of every day. Those crystalline eyes of his greet me when I wake up, and I silently wish good night to them before I sleep the night away … all in my fucking head. I hear his raspy voice whispering dirty words while others converse. I crave his infectious laughter and desire his touch. I want desperately for him to make love to me … to fill the void, the emptiness that plagues me. After several years apart, he returns, upending my life, my relationship, and all that I have worked for. Like a seductive melody on repeat, I can’t think of anything else … of anyone else. I pray that this longing passes, whatever it may be.
The clock next to my bed reads 2:36 a.m. Sleep escapes me. I imagine his full lips on every inch of my body. I feel him in my bones.
The unbearable yearning escalates.
Soft breathing startles me, a painful reminder of where I am … of who I am. I’ve heard the familiar sound for more than a decade. Slowly and with care, I turn to face him. His eyes flutter, lost in a reverie. What is he dreaming about? He remains in the same pose as when he fell asleep a few hours ago. I love you. Yet emptiness manages to surround me. My chest tightens, slowly taunting my heart. My forefinger traces his bottom lip out of habit. Guilt and desolation sweep over me because it’s not his lips I want on mine. It’s not his body I want inside me. He’s not the man who has me … crazy with desire in the middle of the night, begging to be taken, craving just for a taste of him.
He’s not the man who consumes my thoughts.